Drought in Orkney

by Julie-Ann Rowell

No rain. For Months. The burns dry, skeletal beds –
white and studded with pebble. Our acre
is scorched, scarred with patches of yellow,
any green is pale. The same is true of the field beyond
where hares run. Crops are drying in the sun
too early for harvest, though the farmers
are baling and they must top up the animal’s troughs,
they won’t fill themselves. I drove past a bull
drool spilling from its lips almost to the ground.
No one can keep up with this. Lochs are low
their boundaries exposed, they never normally
have baked sandy rims. There’s plenty of cloud, and the haar
is dank with dampness but we need a drenching.

Today, at Stromness, I saw two huge tankers of water
roll off the ferry from Scrabster, never known before.
The clunk of their wheels over the lip to shore,
heading off in different directions, which part
of the isles needs it more? I put out trays of water
for the birds, they often drink rainwater from the guttering
but the guttering’s dry. We’re asked by
the Council to conserve water. The question
of taking flowers to our parent’s grave,
filling the bottle to top up the vase. Our habits
are changing. We obsess. It’s summer but no one
is lying on towels, except visitors. The rest of us
are watching the sky, holding our breath.